telling stories that aren't even as much as missing numbers lost...
adding them up in mornings of days after...
always lost never so much as whisper, they call like false wicked dreams...
taxing to seek this life, with only so much room to do more...
every else this seems like a slow sinking ship...
but to stand and never to speak of those thousand loses would be a murder...
the frequent life of the millions around couldn't care enough to see beyond the dust...
any attempt to the sun again beyond morning dreams is worth more than sitting still...
but for those stranger moments were more than life even though as day and nights came faster...
they seem the only stray light that didn't scream about nothing...
the sad look of days that couldn't be told apart were the only reason otherwise...
to find words to write...
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